


Pygmalion And His Sculpture

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dehumanization, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Jonah Is Besotted And Terrible, Kind of A Bad Ending, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Objectification, Possessive Behavior, idolatry, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The sculpture is afraid of the tides of its rebirth and its purpose, but Jonah won’t let it escape; after all, idols belong in their temples, in the arms of their most devout worshipper.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 95





	Pygmalion And His Sculpture

**Author's Note:**

> A TMA Jonelias fic inspired by Greek mythology, you say?  
> Yes. Because I am gay, and I am a nerd, and apparently a masochist as well.   
> Anyway, this was once again written at night, so forgive me my insomniac tendencies. 
> 
> The lyrics in the beginning and the end are from Pygmalion by The Scary Jokes.

_ You stab at your prize, chiseling fear in her eyes _

_ You know it sounds bad, but you love seeing her sad _

_ You love someone you can shape _

_ Who has no will to escape _

Men must love their creations. Artists must love the pictures of muses made by their own hands; Writers must cherish their pages of written word, brought to being from within their minds. Sculptors must adore their sculptures, pictures of humanlike bliss captured in ivory. And as a creator in his own right, this rule naturally applies to Jonah Magnus, self-proclaimed King in the world of the Dread Powers _. _

In a century twofold, Jonah has not loved any living being other than his rapacious, insatiable God, not once. And well, the nature of ‘living’ in regards to his God, is a debatable one at best.

But the wheels of time have turned. The cogs in the great automaton of Jonah’s plans have whirred in tune with a ballad that told of an end to the world as humankind knew it. The Apotheosis inched closer, washed over the entire world, leaving the Panopticon basking in the light of its omniscience. Had Jonah been a man prone to weeping, he would have done so, with tears of utter ecstasy.

An Apotheosis of this calibre had, of course, needed a harbinger. A figure of perfect making to bring forth Jonah’s new realm of terror.

His beloved Archive. 

There are so many words, adjectives and and endearments that gush out of his guts at the simplest thought of his Archive. It is perfect, with its hungry, horrified multitude of glowing eyes, dotting its surface like jewels of sacred purity. It is beautiful, with its thin frame and lanky limbs, like branches on a wispy willow, that make a desire of purely selfish origin roil in Jonah’s core.

Most importantly, it is so wretchedly holy. Jonah has spent years chiseling fear into its eyes, Knowing into its heart and mind, like the dutiful, excellent sculptor that he is.

And now, as the climax of its Becoming has passed, his Archive has risen to him in the light; an idol made in the image of The Ceaseless Watcher, a flower blossoming in anguish, a sculpture created for worship. A sculpture sculpted by Jonah himself.

Oh, how terribly does Jonah love it. 

Jonah loves it with his fingers, Jonah loves it with his hands. And he admires it with his eyes, and he worships it with his whole body. He lavishes it in all-encompassing affection that only a deity could deserve. 

He adores it with his Heart, a Heart that has not loved a single thing but his merciless God in hundreds of years.

He loves it, his brilliant Archive that he carved from ivory, born anew from fear, draped in ornaments, velvet and gold, now ensconced within the towering walls of the Panopticon.

Unfortunately, the phantoms of agonies past still remain rooted in Jonah’s sculpture, weeds growing from cracks in pure white stone. His Archive is afraid witless, haunted by the aftermath of its rebirth and abhorring the purpose it has been made to fulfill.

It pleads to Jonah, and then it curses him, with vile words unfitting for such a sacred object. Jonah considers himself a patient man, and allows its anger to flow undisrupted for a time, but when the mind of his Archive is infiltrated by the name of a certain man from the past, Jonah finds the end of his patience comes rather briskly.

He, of course, puts an end to such ridiculousness, waiting as the flames of his zealous jealousy smolder back to embers, burying back within him.

Jonah smiles at his Archive as it writhes and screams, tears forming in the corners of all of its eyes, coating the floor in salty droplets. The only thing it knows is a viscerally deep fear, engulfing it and tugging at the few remaining strands of resistance.

Once the rather pointless little travesty is finally over, Jonah lifts the Archive into the warmth of his arms, and so very tenderly undresses it, removes its decadent ornamentation until it is naked and beautiful. He lays it gently on the marble, bared and shivering, for these are moments meant for only him and his Archive to share. 

His Archive deserves to feel the force of Jonah’s love on its skin and flesh, after all. 

Jonah caresses it with long, affectionate strokes, fingertips finding all the little details and divots laid upon his precious, precious sculpture. It tenses beneath him, but does not attempt to struggle free. Jonah’s smile is alight with satisfied pride.

Then Jonah begins a journey of kisses, mouthing at his Archive’s skin, mapping old scars and perfect, lovely flesh. As he drifts over to its vulnerable neck, he can’t help but indulge himself just a bit. His mouth parts, blowing warm air on the skin, and then he dives down to bite and lick its surface with a vicious hunger, definitely rough enough to leave a blooming bruise. The power of the New World has certainly done quite a number on his impulse control. 

A soft, helpless little whine graces Jonah’s ears, and his heart swells with adoration for his most wonderful creation. It deserves to hear his affections vocalized.

“My Archive, my sweetest, oh how much I love you.”

A brittle, bitter laugh rips from the throat of the Archive. It reverberates in this chamber of Seeing and Watching, echoing within Jonah’s mind.

“Y-you don’t love me. You just wanted something you can control, something you can shape. You don’t love me, you- you don’t. I hate you, Jonah.”

Ah, there it is, that damn stubbornness. Jonah sighs and leans down to capture those thin and lovely lips in one more attentive kiss. If he is being perfectly honest with himself, the sweet remnants of a lost humanity only make his Archive all the more endearing.

He rises to marvel at the sight resting beneath him. 

“I quite doubt that. However, whether that hatred is the truth or not matters very little. This place is made for the Watcher and the Archive. Perched upon an altar for Beholding, an idol to Watch and Know, you belong here.”

“After all, idols belong in their temples, in the loving embrace of their most devout worshipper.”

_The only gift you possess is your viciousness_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot for reading you lovely heathens and beloved believers <33


End file.
